


Inhale, Exhale

by Venstar



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 09:25:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8157235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venstar/pseuds/Venstar
Summary: It was supposed to be routine, simple bodyguard duty for the Quartermaster of MI-6...instead it ended in a series of mistakes.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tsuyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsuyu/gifts).



> -Dedicated to R...for whom I murdered for. Look, I'm not an angst writer, far from it. I'm a happy, comedic sort of writer, I promise you. But, I challenged myself to do this OTP death prompt for her.  
> \- Just a warning, don't continue if you are not prepared for angst and don't hate me too much for stepping outside my box and trying to exercise the box.  
> -You also don't get what you want if you don't ask, so never hesitate to ask me for something, you won't find out if I can't make it happen....or I won't find out if I know it's possible if you don't ask. Requests are always open unless life swamps me.  
> \- beta'd by BOFFIN1710 thank you for putting up with me!

 

 

 

* * *

 

It was supposed to be routine, simple bodyguard duty for the Quartermaster of MI-6.  007 had drawn the short straw, but mostly because he had been one of the few double-ohs in country and completely bored.  It's more as if he stole the short straw, he would never beg or borrow.  There was an odd sort of smile stuck to his face as he stood slightly behind Q’s left elbow, listening to his dry, snarky running commentary on the visiting bigwigs from various friendly government powers, who were more interested in getting a moment alone with Q, trying to either size him up, or offer to steal him from MI-6.  

Standing quietly near a corner of the room, they had been giving each other shit about it.  “They don't realize it would mean you would have to fly to your new posting.  We all know how you hate to fly.”

“If it means I can keep a bigger budget by not having you eat through it, then I'll gladly relocate via land or sea.” Q whispered back at him out of the side of his mouth, lips hardly moving before he sipped from his glass of water.

007 barked out a quick laugh, before clearing his throat.  “I've managed to bring back my Walther.”

Q peeked at him without turning his head.  “This time.”

They traded a few more comments, digging at each other in harmless jest.   007, about managing to pull Q out of the dark recesses of Q branch, and into something wearable by the general public.  Q was harassing him for his inability to stay up late with the younger crowd when he gave a bored yawn.  Bets between the two were being made as to who would call it quits before the other one.  The soft notes of [Elgar’s Cello Concerto](https://youtu.be/XwMON0FsAaA) floated around as the various dignitaries, branch heads and their guests moved about the cheerfully lit Wohl Room, with it’s delicate glass roof and pastel green damask walls.  

“White and green, white and green,” Q muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” 007 asked, sipping from his own drink as Q burst into a flurry of movement and strode through the room, his head turning left and right.

“Remind you of something?  White and green?”

007 paused for a moment and smiled, “Money.”

“What a clever senior citizen of the British Commonwealth.”

007 choked on his drink, just a bit, “Why you…where are you going?  Toilet’s are the other way.”

“Yes, but this, is that way.”

“Q.”

Q lowered his voice to mimic 007’s tone, “007.”

“You’re supposed to stay where the government can see you, so they can show you off to the other governments.  You’ll deny them of their ability to gloat.”

“Really 007, I didn’t think you were one for following the rules.”

“Tell me where we’re going at least.”

“Come on, we’ll take the long way.”

007 stopped in his tracks, became the belligerent, pigheaded mule he was known to be if he didn’t like something.  “Not one more step will you get out of me.”

Q turned to look at him with only _some_ exasperation in his eyes.  “Room 34.”  He watched as only 007’s eyes gave away the processing of information before realization clicked and he offered up a small one-sided smile before deigning to move his feet again.  He nudged Q in the shoulder as he caught up to him.

“I’d forgotten.”

Q snorted, “You, forget?  That’s like telling the sun not to shine.”

“There are cloudy days in London, but you wouldn’t know that, stuck permanently underground like a little…”

“Don’t start.”

“We have to work on your vitamin D intake.”

“I take my vitamins.” Q grumbled, “I just come from a long line of…”

“Vampires?”  007 smiled at the chortle of laughter he got out of the young boffin.  They remained silent as they wandered through the rest of the dimly lit gallery, before they entered where they had first met, a strange new beginning.  “Getting sentimental in your dotage Q?”  He turned to face Q who was studying the _Fighting Temeraire._ “What do you see?”

Q smiled at the reminder, “A bloody big ship.”

“I think that’s my line.”  007 said, his thoughts returning to that day.  The mess that Silva had left behind at MI-6, the young man who had stepped in to take the Old Q, Boothroyd’s place during a time of war, upheaval.  Then he had helped lead a massive shakedown of SPECTRE, destroying C’s network.  “MI-6 falls no more.  The War Q.”  

“Wait, hang on, I need to wrap my head around the fact that you did indeed, just make a Dr. Who reference.  I wonder if, like him, I’ll have time to set my affairs in order.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“No, 007, but life is short.  Especially an MI-6 life.  One day, I could end up like old Boothroyd.  I hope to live as long as he did but…”

“You have many years left to you yet.”

“Well, yes, hopefully.  But you don’t, although Moneypenny tells me that resurrection is your specialty.”

“What has my life got to d-” 007 shushed himself as the brief and fleeting touch of the Quartermaster’s fingertips pressed and released his lips in the age old command of _SHUSH UP_.  

An adjustment of his glasses and Q drew in a deep breath, one of the last he would be able to take freely that night, if he only knew, if they only knew, perhaps 007 wouldn’t have wasted it.  “I promised myself that I would-”

A flick of the tongue and it drew Q’s gaze.  “Q?”

It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that regret is unprofessional, but Q never finished that statement, and they regretted.  Someone at the party, after managing an introduction to the young Quartermaster, in an act of betrayal and treason, had started in motion, a series of regrettable events.  What appeared to be a breathless couple, looking for a moment of privacy stumbled into their little tableau.  

"Oh, sorry!" The female giggled, her gentleman companion just smiled at Q and 007.  

A bit miffed, Q walked swiftly away from the painting and 007, who took a second before following at a dog trot and caught up to him, right as the gentleman caught 007 on the corner of his jaw with a swift punch.  The female struck Q across the throat, causing him to choke and stumble back against the wall, a painting shifted.

"Careful, careful!"  The female said in a wicked singsong.  

Caught by surprise, they were taken together and they were pulled apart.

007 had fought with his technical brawler style.  Quick, targeted hits, designed to cause death and destruction as each blow found it’s target.  He tried to provide cover and time for his asset to escape.  He had been surprised when Q took action and entered the altercation, no matter how loud or how many times 007 ordered him to run.  The delicate looking boffin had turned into a whirling dervish.  There was a certain grace to the fluid, twisting motions of his natural bony elbows and gangly limbs, but together, even they weren’t enough against tasers and finally the tranquilizers that someone had the forethought to bring along with them.

They were taken together and they were pulled apart.

 When they were finally reunited, it was a sorry state of affairs.  Still separate, but together.  007 could only observe from his position, unable to move, unable to help.  He fought, he twisted.  Anything to stop what was happening to Q, and when it was all over and they were left once more...together, in silence, except for the wheezing, gasping breaths that Q tried to take.

“I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself…”  Q was hung up, his ribs had been broken, his lungs were surely punctured, he was drowning in his own body fluids.  His weight, though slight, was on his wrists, as he could no longer support himself.  He was slowly dislocating his wrists, his shoulders, there was nowhere for him to go. No way to relieve the taught pressure with each cough, each breath.  He had nothing left, except his words.  “I promised...I know it’s a terrible...cliche, to have a crush on an agent, even more so on double ohs….can’t even have a favorite, they say.  Ha.  As if I’d slack on my duties...to all of you.”

“Q, you’re rambling, hold on there.”

“No,” Q stopped to cough.  “I have to say this…”  Seconds or minutes pass as Q is wracked with a cough, his body fights to clear his lungs, but 007 knows it’s not enough, it won’t be enough.  He’s split his own lungs open often enough to know nothing is enough in that moment and there isn’t anything in that moment for Q.

“No, hang on...pun not intended.  Save your strength, you’ll need it when I get us out of here.” 007 pulled at his bindings once more, searching for any weakness as he was taught to do.

That got a grin filled with blood out of Q, “Always the optimist.  I have none left, 007.”

“James.  I think at this point you can call me James.”

Another flash of white and red.  “I’d like that.”

“Say it.”

“James.”  It comes out as a rough caress.  

James’s eyes widen.  He knows that tone, he’s just never heard it from Q before.  He freezes for a moment and a small lifetime flashes through his mind.  That’s funny, they say it does when you’re about to die, not when someone you...his thoughts trail off then speed back off.  Q, Q, Q.  Always Q.  007’s designation spoken a million times in a million of tones, from sarcasm, to humor, annoyance, frustration, dry, anger...affection?  No.  No?  Maybe it had been there, maybe it had always been there, in between the aggravated sighs.  

The moment that he doesn’t have to waste on self-reflection passes, his eyes flick up and meet a flash of hazel, dulled and red with pain, nearly swollen shut.  If he didn’t get them out of there right this instant, he risked being left behind without all those inflections stored within that incredibly posh tone.

Q started talking again, James wasn’t sure if delirium hadn’t set in.  “A small bird will drop frozen dead...from a bough without...ever...having felt sorry for itself.”

“Self-pity, D.H. Lawrence.”  He smiled at Q’s surprise.  “Something I am infinitely familiar with.  I wouldn’t have expected it of you.  And don’t look so surprised, I keep telling you that some of the double-ohs did receive at minimum, a primary school education.”

A small huff of laugh again, followed by the sound of Q drowning on dry land.  James closed his eyes.  Every piece of equipment had been taken from him the moment he had been captured.  Everything that didn’t matter, now something that did, would be taken from him shortly.

 For James, closing his eyes and ears wasn’t an option, not for Q, he owed him that much.  Q continued to bleed internally, quietly and finally giving way to his injuries, his lungs filled, his oxygen supply cut off.  Before his last moments, when James was saying and doing anything in his power to keep Q awake and breathing, Q finally spoke.  It was soft and drifting, broken like his body.  “Bloody...big…”

“Q!”

“Ship.  I lo-”

“What?”

“Loved.  Loved.”

“No.  No, stop!  

“Love y-”

“Stay!  Please stay!”

If anyone could look annoyed with James on his last living breath, it was Q.  “I love you.”  An exhale, soft and gentle and that was it.  James bore silent witness as the steady, living, breathing heartbeat of Q-branch stopped, never to be started again.  James didn’t think he would ever stop screaming, his throat was raw and he could taste metal, as his body finally shut him up in an effort to protect itself.  Nothing more would come out.  In silence, he curled in upon himself, head hanging, there was no space small enough that he could hide himself in.

007 had been meant to stand witness, it had been done purposefully.  The fools that took them had hoped to cut MI-6 down to it’s knees by removing one of its prize assets.  The news carried back to headquarters by one of their trusted agents.  What they hadn’t and couldn’t have planned on, was being gutted and burned in retribution by the killing machine of MI-6.  

The first mistake they made, was working under the assumption that 007 and Q couldn’t have possibly meant anything to each other, that a double-oh would accept the loss of an asset and at their release, tuck tail and return.  The second mistake they made that night was releasing 007 within their walls.  

All that was found, the next morning, after the large fire at the docks was put out, was the ghost and shell of a warehouse with bodies scattered throughout, but they didn’t die from fire alone.  Some had crushed larynxes, broken necks and a few had punctured lungs from a variety of foreign objects.  It would be determined later in autopsies that they died from these primary injuries, there was no sign of smoke inhalation scarring the lungs and nasal passages.

The remains  were all nearly burnt and mangled beyond recognition, including Q, his was the only unidentifiable corpse left.  He had been left a mystery, as much in death as in life.  Under the direction of a very somber M, Tanner and Moneypenny, MI-6 took possession of the site and all of the bodies.

The bodies were zipped away in their black bags, removed from their resting places and brought out of the warehouse.  Moneypenny closed her eyes and turned her head away from the sight of the last removal, carried with honor past them.  She touched her forehead briefly against Tanner’s shoulder.  In a soft voice, Tanner filled the silence, “In two straight lines in rain or shine, the smallest one, was Madeline.”  Moneypenny’s breath hitched at Tanner’s absentminded recitation, but she remained quiet as she turned to follow M away, her eyes filled with remorse, the men silent in their grief.

When 007 finally surfaced, to return to the empty machine that was left of Q-branch, it was quiet.  While the machinery hummed and the minions scuttled about, there was no life, no sarcastic remarks, no dry, burning wit.  The heart was gone, brutally cut out.  R carried on, she couldn’t bring herself to accept the Quartermaster position.  The double-ohs tread quietly, carefully through the subdued minions.  Small tokens of odd, burnt, broken foreign tech and gadgetry were placed like offerings on various handlers desks as missions were completed.

 007 was given a wide berth on his return.  He acknowledged no one as he glided through, he could feel the steady gazes of the silent watchful minions as he passed by.  He quietly approached R holding his hand out, palm up, silently waiting.  She glanced down at his calloused hand, she knew what he was asking for.  Without saying anything to him, she nodded once and made her way to the closed door to the former Q’s small office.  She took one, deep inhale before unlocking the door, letting him in.  

 He stood on the threshold and surveyed the cramped room, his eyes taking in the futon, with it’s ratty blanket that Q would sometimes sleep on when he worked for too long, various pieces of half finished tech scattered about, that delicate fingers would never finish.  A whiteboard full of Q’s serial killer, chicken scratch handwriting filled one wall and would remain incomplete, until erased away.  007 approached the desk, scarred with cuts and acid burns.  The small snowglobe he had brought back from his most recent trip to Russia, rested on the edge of his desk, pushed to the edge by a pile of paperwork.  The colorful domes still and quiet in their glass housing.  

Q’s scrabble mug stood to the side of his laptop, empty and white, waiting endlessly for it’s never to come refill of Earl Grey.  007 traced one finger around the rim of the mug before gently taking it up in his hand, exiting Q’s office without a glance at R.  He left as silently as he entered, his knuckles white as he gripped the mug.  The other minions, R and whatever double-ohs were lounging around stood out of respect, as the cup was carried out of Q-branch, their eyes following it’s departure, never to return, just like it’s owner.  

 007 returned to his near empty flat.  It was small, quiet, practically bare.  He set the mug gently down, on his coffee table, next to a chipped old bulldog with a union jack on it’s back.  He retrieved a glass from his kitchen, poured himself two fingers of scotch, neat and returned to observe the placement of the objects.  Out of the inner pocket of his jacket, he pulled a pair of glasses, two toned in black and clear, smeared with blood and smudged with both his and Q’s fingerprints.   _Vintage chic_ , he could hear Q’s dry, distractracted tone, defending them.  They were placed in the mug with a small tink.  “I hope the two of you approve,” he said raising his glass, “bookends would be tacky.”


End file.
